“I do not intend to do any planning. I’ve done far too much of that, and not enough…” Shut up, Cat.
She did, closing her mouth with a snap.
He merely nodded, wearily. “I could put you on the next stagecoach for Poscola Flats, and you could be on a train to Boston in two shakes.”
“No.” Not until I have Robbie’s locket. Then I will find him, no matter what condition he may be in.
Could that be the warning? Did someone in Damnation know, or suspect? It was very likely, and the trembling going through her mounted another notch.
Oh, Robbie. What on earth are you suffering right now? Or are you…no, you cannot be dead. You simply cannot be.
Jack Gabriel held up one callused hand, as if to halt an obedient dog. “I figure you’ve got a reason not to go back East. Well, no matter. If you’re gonna stay in Damnation, we’ll—”
Her temper almost snapped. “You have no right to order me about or dispose of me in any fashion, sir.”
“No, I ain’t got a right, yet. But I’m powerful interested in keeping that pretty neck of yours out of trouble. You could try thankin’ me.”
“I am sure I am very grateful.” She made it as prim and unhelpful as she could, which was quite.
“You’re a bad liar.”
I hope not. Oddly enough, though, she felt better. Why? “If you have finished insulting me—”
“Are you the marryin’ type, Miss Barrowe?”
“What?” Her shriek would probably wake little Jonathan, all the way upstairs.
Jack Gabriel leaned forward in the chair, his elbows braced on his knees. He was staring at her, and the faint smile he wore was not calming or humorous in the least. “I mean, are you sweet on anyone, back East or here? Some poor bastard who don’t know how to handle you when you get all prickly and proper?”
I’m dreaming. There’s no other explanation. This is all a nightmare. “I most certainly am not, not that it’s any of your business—”
“Good. Because I’d hate to have to kill a man over you. Now you listen to me. From now on, you stay in sunshine. I’ll get Russ Overton to bring the wagon ’round to take you to the schoolhouse, and I’ll walk you home in the afternoons. Tell me you will.”
What is he on about? I shall never get a chance to acquire Robbie’s locket if you keep crowding me in such a manner. “I don’t see the need for Mr. Overton or—”
“There’s a need.”
His tone was so grim she leaned back against the chair, and found her hands were not so steady now. She clasped them together—where had her gloves gone? Her head was a-whirl. If she could merely gather herself for a few moments, perhaps this would not seem so overwhelming.
It did not appear he would let her. “Now, are you gonna give me your word, Catherine? ’Cause if you ain’t I’m gonna have to do something you might not like.”
“Do not threaten me. I will observe all proper precautions. Including seeking legal redress and charter protection against whoever—”
“You just leave that to me.” He sighed, rose a trifle stiffly, and settled his hat over his tousled hair. With it on, the steely glint of his eyes lost under the shadow of the brim, he was not quite so comforting. “Do I have your word?”
“Certainly.” Fancy that—she had gone from being grateful for his presence to wishing she could heave him out the door with exceeding force. “I shall go with Mr. Overton in the morning, and you may be allowed to accompany from the schoolhouse to my domicile in the afternoons. When it is necessary.”
“Good enough.” He settled his hat, turned on his heel, and strode for the back door. “Bar this behind me. And for God’s sake, be careful. That wasn’t a May bouquet sitting on your porch.” The drawl had evaporated, and he sounded clipped and precise. “Ma’am.”
With that, he was gone, the night outside breathing its dust-spice in for a brief moment. Cat pulled herself to her feet, made it across the room on unsteady legs, and settled the bar in its brackets. She turned the lock too, for good measure. The kettle hadn’t even finished steaming, and the teapot sent up fragrant veils as well. Everything else, she decided, could bloody well wait for morning to be sorted.
I’d hate to have to kill a man over you.
Dear God. Did he mean there was a chance he would?
Chapter 17
Full dark had fallen, and Russ Overton was in a state, jamming his hat on and scrambling to his feet from his usual chair in front of Capran’s Dry Goods. Across the street, the Tin House was rocking with drunken laughter, and there was the high sharp note of glass breaking. “It’s dark, Gabe! The circuit—”
“You come with me.” Gabe barely broke stride. Whoever was smashing glass inside the Tin could wait. “We ain’t goin far.”
“What the hell—is it an incursion? What’s going on?”
The canvas bag dangling from Gabe’s right hand swung a little, dripping. His spurs struck sparks, bright blue bits of uneasy mancy. “Someone left a rabbit on the schoolmarm’s porch.”
Russ’s legs were too short, so he outright scurried to keep alongside. “That’s very nice, but—”
“Twisted up with a death-charm and nailed in with false-iron.” His teeth ached; he was gonna crack a few of them if he kept clenching them this hard. At least he had a charm to fix that.
Russ spluttered. “What? That’s goddamn dangerous!”
I thought so too. Gabe plunged aside into the alley, and Russ hurried to keep up, their boots grinding against dust and small pebbles. The wind had picked up even more, and it might be another one of the storms that made everyone crazy with a constant low moaning and rasping grit in the air.
Of course, Gabe was halfway to crazed already.
He’d probably scared the life out of the girl; the words had been out of his mouth before he’d thought. Now she knew, and not only that. Saying it made it real.
Maybe it was just that the schoolmarm was the first miss who wasn’t a saloon girl or someone’s spoken-for—but that wasn’t it, either. It was something else, he didn’t have the time or the inclination to define it further.
The important thing was, she was in harm’s way. Which meant Jack Gabriel had a job to do.
What a helluva mess.
“Gabe, dammit, what the hell?” Russ was out of breath already.
“Salt’s.” The rage mounted another notch inside his chest, and the ice all through him was a warning. Her curls were soft, a little slippery, and she had trembled against him, soft and frightened. “That’s where we start. And if the sonofabitch did this bit of work, I’m putting a bullet in him.”
“Gabe, now don’t get all—”
He rounded on the man, itching to shake him. Might even have, if his hand hadn’t been full of rabbit carcass and false-iron nails. “It was on her porch! It started screaming the minute she got near it!” Why am I shouting?
There was a spatter of gunfire from the sinks in the southwest part of town. Either that or it was firecrackers from the Chinois parts beyond, celebrating something in their heathen way. For once, Gabe didn’t care.
The chartermage was pale under his caramel coloring, and thoughtful. “That’s just mighty strange. The Chinee girl was there, right? She didn’t hear nothin’ troublesome?” Russ had his hands up and loose, and he cautiously took a step aside. “I’m just sayin’, tell me a little more about this, Gabe.”
Why are you slowin’ me down? “She heard, and she was feedin’ her baby, Russ, and she can’t speak much good Englene when she’s scared out of her mind.”
“It’s just…normally, you know, that’s not a quiet or short job, something like this. And done near dusk. Are you sure it was meant for the marm?”
Who else? It couldn’t be meant for Li Ang; the Chinois just didn’t come into that part of town. Which was why he’d put her there to begin with, and arranged things so she could stay relatively out of sight. “Well, it’s her damn house. And Tils is swearing up and down that he’ll fix her.”
“My girl?” I’ve been careful, have you been opening your yap? If you have, by Hell I’ll…
He realized the ridiculousness of it just in time, and noticed Russ had stiffened. Gabe shook out his fist, lowering his hand.
I have to calm down.
Russ kept a weather eye on his hand, in case Gabe changed his mind. “There ain’t anyone in town who doesn’t know, dammit; don’t act surprised. The betting’s been a right nuisance to keep track of.”
“Betting?” Some of the ice cracked, and his fingers eased up a little on the canvas bag too. Getting the thing up off the planks had been a job; whoever had nailed it in had driven the iron deep. Had Li Ang been inside, quaking, hearing that noise?
It was a hell of a time to wish he knew some Chinois.
“Odds were ten to one in her favor by the time you took her out to that schoolhouse. Laura Chapwick was locked up in her room crying for a good two days, but now she’s making eyes at Beau Thibodeau.”
“Chapwick? The redheaded one? Why the hell—oh, dammit, quit changing the subject.” I’ve got someone to beat the goddamn living hell out of, and you’re not helping.
“I never bet on her. Too docile. Now listen, I’m all for asking Salt a couple questions about this little event. But you put a bullet in him, the next shadow we get might not be so damn incompetent, and we’d both have to work harder. In the interests of my laziness, Gabe, let’s be a little cautious here.”
“God damn it.” But Russ was right. Some of the steel-hard tightness in his shoulders receded a bit, and Gabe set his jaw. The tingling in his fingers had gone down, and so had the unsteady, explosive feeling behind his breastbone. His spurs no longer struck sparks when he moved, a single restless step. “Fine. I won’t shoot the bastard.” Unless he forces me to.
“That’s the spirit.” Russ brushed at his lapels, swung his hat a few times, and settled it back on his curly mane. “Then we got to ride the circuit. I got a bad feelin’ tonight, with the wind up and all.”
You ain’t the only one. But Gabe shut up and followed Russ. He had plenty to think on, now that he was thinking, instead of simmering with fury.
“Just promise me you won’t kill the man,” the chartermage continued. “I don’t want to bury no sonofabitch unconsecrated tonight.”
* * *
Riding the circuit was a good way to think. Or at least, it could have been if the rising dust-laden wind wasn’t enough to choke a mule, and Russ was in a bad temper. He had to keep spitting the charm to keep some clear air around them, over and over.
It ain’t my fault, Gabe told himself. How could he have known they’d find Salt that way? And he hadn’t been the one to break the chartershadow’s jaw. Doc was flat-out amazed that Russ’s small hands could deliver such a blow.
It didn’t help that Russ had been sweet on the widow Holywood for as long as he’d been in town. It further didn’t help that Salt had the widow on her knees and had his hands down in his trousers, obviously intent on collecting a payment for a piece of bad mancy. Salt had made the mistake of jeering, and Russ had exploded.
Go home, Gabe told the widow. Go to the mage if you need mancy, just don’t ever come here again.
He could pretty much tell she wasn’t going to listen. Whatever she wanted, neither Salt nor the widow would tell—not like Salt could, with his jaw shattered and the rest of him pretty near pulped. Restraining Russ hadn’t been easy.
This had all the earmarks of a situation that was gonna end badly. But at least Russ had, after all the excitement, verified that the death-charm wasn’t Salt’s work.
There’d been enough blood on the floor for that.
Gabe flicked a spark of blue-white off his fingers, lighting a gully to their left. Each shadow stood out sharp and clear, whirling dust specks of diamond, but all was as it should be. No shambling figures, no slithering movement. The quiet held.
The last incursion of undead had been at the schoolhouse. And Gabe still didn’t have an explanation for how those corpses had ended up inside the town’s charter.
He didn’t like that one bit.
Russ halted for a moment, his head rising. Breathing through a charmed triangle of cloth knotted around his face, blinking, he peered ahead. Gabe eased his horse forward. If there was a gap or an erasure, Russ would mend it while Gabe stood guard.
Russ’s hat shook itself, no. He continued, and this was the worst sector—due west, where the sun went to die every day.
There were plenty of gold claims in the hills, yes. All sorts of things out in the hills where the wild mancy roamed. And one particular claim, sealed up tight as a vicar’s platebox, the ancient hungry thing inside it deep in its uneasy slumber.
It was about time to ride out and check, to make certain the seal was holding. The tribes before the white man in this part of the world had whispered of something foul in the hills before they disappeared. Those garbled legends sent a cold finger down Gabe’s back the first time he heard them, because those of the Order knew how much truth there could be in such whispers.
Yes, he had to go out soon. In sunshine, though. No amount of gold could have made either man venture west in the dark. Not through those hills. Some other idiots might, though, and if they brought trouble back to town it was Gabe who would be setting it to rights.
Thinking about that claim put him in a worse mood, if that was possible. Something was nagging at him, and there was no way to tease it out when people kept misbehaving. Something to do with that claim, and the—
Russ pulled his horse up short, and Gabe’s mouth went dry. Sparks flew, blue-white and the lower, duller red of the chartermage’s mancy. Russ dismounted, and the rifle was in Gabe’s hands, steady and comforting. He covered the hole while the chartermage crouched, teasing together the circuit-strands, binding them with knots that flashed with ancient symbols of protection against malice, ill-chance…
And evil.
The rifle was steady. Dust slipped and slithered, if the wind didn’t abate by morning they were looking at a regular old simoun, and everyone who was half-crazy before would go all the way into full-blown lunatic while the wind lasted. He’d be busy keeping some semblance of order, and Catherine—who knew how she’d react? The winds were the hardest thing to take, sometimes.
Russ straightened. The border was repaired. The chartermage’s shoulders relaxed a little. He turned back to his horse, and the rifle jerked in Gabe’s hands. He worked the bolt again, and the shadow fled, sudden eerie phosphorescence leaving a slugtrail on flying dust. There was a flash of white shirt, braces, and a suggestion of loose, flopping hair.
Man-shaped, could be anything. Nightflyer, a skomorje—but they don’t like it when it’s dry—or maybe even wendigo, though there hasn’t been any spoor and it’s not winter. That would just cap everything off. The rifle’s barrel moved slowly, covering a smooth arc. Ain’t a rotting corpse, though; they don’t glow at night. It could be…but we sealed that claim. I sealed that claim up solid.
“Gabe?” Russ called over the wind’s mounting rush, and both horses were nervous. The charming on their hoods would keep the dust out of sensitive membranes, but no beast Gabe had ever ridden liked a hood.
“Not sure,” he called back. “Mount up.”
The chartermage swung himself into his saddle with a grunt. He waited until Gabe kneed his horse forward to continue, both animals picking their way with finicky delicacy. The western charterstone was very near, and once they reached it the circuit was finished.
Man-shaped. Tall and skinny. Flopping hair. Couldn’t see much else. The glow, though. That’s troublesome.
God damn it. He was going to have to go visit that claim again, and sooner rather than later.
Chapter 18
Mr. Overton was a curiou
s case. His skin was the color of coffee with cream, and his dark hair was slicked down with something that resembled wax. He was no taller than Cat herself, with a long nose, and his full lips were pulled tight as he shook some of the biscuit-colored dust from his bowler hat.
His eyes were odd, too, a variety of light almost-yellow she had never seen before. His charing—a brass ring, denoting some form of servitude in his past—was alive with a soft red glow, showing him to be a chartermage.
No wonder he had come to the West. Even in the Northern provinces a chartermage of his particular color might find it difficult to find proper work—if he did not fall foul of a coffle-gang meant to drag him into the dark South where he could be drained of his mancy and turned into a soulless automaton, living only in name.
Robbie had wanted to enter Army service, but their father had categorically forbade it. The War had been fought to settle the Abolition Question, but even after all the blood and trouble there seemed precious little settled. Not when there were still coffle-gangs; she had seen them on the streets of Boston the very day she had left.
It gave one the shudders to think of, although Cat’s parents had been firmly of the State’s Rights opinion. Now, as she eyed the man before her, she wondered if she should have perhaps paid more attention to the Question. It was an altogether uncomfortable thing to have one who would be affected so intimately by such a debate before one in the flesh.
Li Ang hurried away, her step light on the stairs, and little Jonathan’s wailing ceased after a few moments. Cat straightened her gloves. “How do you do, sir.”
“How do, ma’am.” He moved as if to touch his hatbrim, his gaze roving everywhere but to her face. “Gabe said you’d be needing an escort to the schoolhouse.”
“So he thinks.” She adjusted her grip on the leather satchel and lifted her chin. “May I offer you some tea? Or coffee; I believe Li Ang knows how to make such an infusion.”
“No thank you, ma’am. Best get going, there’s work to be done today.”
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